


virtues, not vice

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:49:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the world there is no right way of doing anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	virtues, not vice

**Author's Note:**

> i. All of Stevie's instagram posts about Luis has a heart emoji in them. Somewhere. And [this](http://mesutings.tumblr.com/post/124620382094/stevengerrard-the-main-man-luissuarez9).  
> ii. If 2013/14 still breaks your heart then, same.

 

1.

It would be simple to admit that you never loved him.

 

 

2.

You never liked to admit to things.

 

 

 

3.

He was wary of you at first. Anyone would be. You've tried very hard to be the most intimidating you can be on a football pitch because it's not a game. It never was. It's actually more simple, but simple like life and death is simple. You wonder if he knows that you are very much the same. That is the question, isn't it? Honorable captain, problematic striker.

It goes like this- you score an absolute screamer against Stoke. The sort of goal that magnifies the boos from the Stoke fans just moments before when you nutmegged one of their defenders and out dribbled the other one. The sort of goal that made people stand up and punch the air and knock over their beer on the bar table. The sort of goal that was always yours, as much you as the hair on your head and the blood in your veins. You smile at him, and he looks at you.

It also goes like this- you're banned ten matches for violent conduct. You score the equalizer in added time, teeth still buzzing in your jaw, mouth dry. You do it. You haven't failed. This is also yours, as much as the fingers on your hand and the blood in your veins. He looks at you, and you smile at him. Worth it?

He nods, imperceptibly. He stands by you, though the world doesn't. He understands, though the world doesn't. There aren't words to explain what it is, just that he knows, the particular frenzy when you're still four yards from the box and your legs feel like iron weights and there's five defenders around you and you're 2-1 down-

He doesn't say anything but he stands by you, and that is answer enough.

 

 

 

4.

He calls you at night when he couldn't fall asleep. You've never figured out why he did that, since you could barely speak the same language. He talks to you and you listen and make the appropriate noises between the intervals of the conversation where he falls silent, and he would carry on after the pause, a smile in his voice. You wonder if he knows that you're uncomfortable with the calls, and if maybe that's why he persists.

He never brings it up in person. When the title race has truly become a _race,_ every match a teeth gritted nightmare, he will say things like, “Luis, I'm fucking terrified about the game coming up.” You don't understand many english words even after 3 years, but this was simple enough. This was simple enough, but unsolvable. You do not know what to say. So you say nothing, waiting as he breathed in to the line, until he starts up on another topic of conversation. You think maybe he's banking on you not understanding, that perhaps, your silence is also a sort of comfort. He never brings it up when you're face to face.

 _This will not slip,_ he says. You've got this by the scruff of the neck, don't you? You won't let it slip. This is a game you've played before, this all or nothing. You've played it on the streets of Salto, ball at your feet, the whole world waiting at the tips of your outstretched fingers. You grin at him with all your teeth, and he's not saying anything, looking at you like you're the summation of all his dreams come true.

 

 

5.

But you do. Or rather, he does.

Fast forward and you are not a monster when the whistle blows at the end of the Crystal Palace game. You're not the wily trickster, the devil who'd punch a baby to win, you're not a monster but you want to be, goddamn it. You'd do anything but it wasn't enough. You'd punch a fucking baby, you'd bite a thousand more people, you'd break your own legs if it meant anything.

It doesn't. You're crying and you can't look at him. He's crying too, but his tears don't fall when other people can see.

They'll burn you alive for crying. They've always done that; you don't care. How dare you play football like it's the most important thing in the world. You don't care. You don't care. The boy who falls to the pitch in tears is not a monster. It's a child's rage, a child's heartbroken anger. You're just a boy, the one crying in the streets of his hometown as the rain poured down, knowing his heart's desire was forever beyond his reach.

 

 

 

6.

Why are love-bites called love-bites? You press a finger in to the mark you left on his shoulder, raised purply red welt. Love. Bites. Maybe it's two words. The more you say it the more it doesn't make sense, till you give up, amused. He would understand why. He always has. You watch him, his face half buried in the crook of his elbow, eyebrows knitted even in sleep.

You're leaving after this season. Maybe he got you to believe in that impossible dream for a while, just by his own fervor, but ambition is ambition. For a while you were him and he was you and it was the same, easy. You wanted to show him that dreams came true, but maybe it just wasn't supposed to work for him.

He shifts in his sleep, rolls over and slings an arm over your stomach, mumbling something. You won't stay the night, of course, because nothing sabotages your family, not even him. But he's sleeping, and maybe you can stay awhile, so you run a hand over his hair, gently, like what you do with Delfina when she's having a bad dream, and think about staying, an easy lie.

 

 

 

 

 

7.

A year later and neither of you are in red anymore. You have won all there is to win with Barcelona, while his trophy cabinet remained exactly the same. He clasps your hand and looks genuinely pleased to see you, ducking his head like he's shy but you know he isn't. He couldn't be. You don't know how to tell him that sometimes you actually can't bear the sight of him, like an exposed nerve, the reminder of what you could have done, how you failed him.

You reason with yourself that it must be like that for him too. Perhaps he can't let you go because you and the league trophy are entwined in a single entity with could-have-beens and would-have-beens.

You exchange pleasantries and jerseys and bits of information about Alex, his girls, about Sofia, your children. You take a customary picture together, his hand firm on your shoulder.

In the end you leave him, the game is over and there is nothing else left. You're walking away, shoulders oddly heavy, and he calls you. You turn around. He looks like he's about to say something, mouth half open, a hand suspended in air. You wait.

 

 

 

 

8.

“Luis.” He says.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i owe _someone_ an explanation. @God, probably. I'm sorry- you can probably come to me and say "Luis Suarez is a racist asshole." And I'd agree, really.  
>  But still. Crystal Palace. The whole 2013/14 season. i think i started this because i wanted to know why Stevie was always so fond of Luis, why he was so...selectively blind about all his faults. except all i got was the other side, but then i figured out the Stevie thing anyway.  
> When is a monster not a monster?  
> You should know that answer.


End file.
